Wind
by every-holmes-for-every-watson
Summary: These are the days of Sherlock Holmes breaking without John Watson holding him together. "I lay awake, visualizing you beside me, your hand itching to place itself above mine. It's sickening, I can almost smell you again." Johnlock. Warning: Depression, Major Character Death.


**Sherlock's POV**

**September 16th.**

The wind reminds me of your hair. Late in the night, silence wrapped around us like a cocoon, and my fingertips would swim in the ocean of your short stubby hair.

My heart is cold.

**September 27th.**

It's cold, the wind blows heavier, and it hurts to breathe. I'm laying in our bed, the sheets sticking to me uncomfortably, and I gaze at the empty space beside me. You always looked at a glass as half full. You always looked at the positive side of things.

But, without you, my heart is half empty.

**November 1st. **

The wind is a bit heavier tonight.

I hear the trees rustling as I lay in bed, and it vaguely makes me think of when we made love with our whispered confessions, and the slight noises of the bed sheets spread out around us. I should be angry at you for leaving me, for crumbling away as I clung onto you most, but I just feel numb. Reality is just a string away from me, and I'm living within the own confinement of my mind. Your large hands traveling my body, your tongue lapping my skin to taste the sweat, the want, producing on my skin, your fingertips teasing the outer rims of my thighs-

Delete.

**November 14th.**

It's always windy now, I suppose. When I leave Baker Street, my hair never fails to become tangled. You loved my curly hair. You even told me that the dark brown color reminded you of nature. You said they went so well with my green eyes (or whatever color it may be at the time), that you would lose yourself within the galaxy of my own orbs-

Forget it.

**December 3rd.**

The days mold together. The wind howls and churns, and scars along my skull. Nighttime becomes the beacon of hope, that one night you'll walk in with your blonde hair, your John Watson smile, and talk about your day. Perhaps you'd slip in how much you missed me like you always did.

I feel sick.

**December 19th.**

I'm humming "Didn't We" by Frank Sinatra, and the song boils into my soul. You sang it to me one night, I was awfully sick, the fever keeping me stuck in bed. You placed ice chips in my mouth, rubbed my oily hair, and sang it to me. It was your favorite song. It's mine now.

The wind sings to me.

**January 12th.**

I lay awake, visualizing you beside me, your hand itching to place itself above mine. It's sickening, I can almost smell you again. I'm really going mad, but surprisingly, I think that's what I've been craving. The days sew together, the yearning grows bolder, and my heart becomes more dead. I feel like I'm floating, stuck in my own purgatory, waiting for you to guide me back home. Memories quickly flood into my head, so strong, so vivid that I almost puke. They gleam before my closed eyelids, sparkle within my dreaded mind, and I realize that I'm screaming for them to stop. The first day we met, our first kiss, the first time we made love, the morning where you tried to make pancakes but ended up burning the oven- delete, delete, delete. It's what I'm begging for at this point, to delete it all, to delete your whole existence, because you killed me. You left, and my whole point of living left with you. My body drags itself to your side of the bed, and I feel my cheeks become wet as I lay my head against your pillow.

The wind wasn't blowing that night.

**February 2nd.**

I forgot which night it was, it didn't hold any significance to me at the time. My body was stapled into the bed, my breaths heavily with retention, and I found myself coming to a deep decision. You were the best and worst thing to have ever happened to me, and that will always stick with me. I can ignore it, but it's there. My eyes drift to the empty bedside beside me, and I bite my lower lip so hard that blood spills out. I clench my fists and shut my eyes so tight that it hurts, but I can feel the pain, yes, and I almost sob with the release. For once throughout this entire process, I voluntarily let the memories spark through. They were as strong as last time, perhaps stronger, and I weakly let out a wail. The way you touched me was so sincere, it was utter poetry, you always managed to take my breath away. I would watch you as arousal spiked through your body, as you would explode right in front of my eyes, and it was a sight that always moved my heart. The way you made tea was so infuriating and perfect, watching you make it was like watching art before your very own eyes. The tea was much better than I could ever make, and you'd make fun of me for it. The way you'd sing Elvis when I would be so unbelievably angry at you would make me smile and laugh, and you'd boast with your triumphant smile and we'd waltz around the room while singing "Hound Dog." The way you looked when you first told me you loved me dripped of velvet tones around us, the affection so strong that it replaced my bone marrow. The way-

No. Delete.

They scattered along my skull, desperately trying to stay, to reason with me, but I throw them all away, diligently forgetting about each one, because I cannot do this anymore.

Separate memories splatter around me, disintegrating, and they drip out of my mind, making it as if they never existed. But, as this is happening, I feel myself residing to the one memory that never failed to make my heart warm. The night we first made love. I open my eyes within my mind, and see me sitting next to you. I still feel other memories drowning away, completely wiped away from my brain, and it starts to clutch onto my lungs. And yet, here you are, John Watson, smiling the smile that made everything bad go away. For a second, I forgot this was even happening. I'm laying next to you, completely naked and comfortable. The room around us melts away, and soon you start to melt away from me too. It is within the moment that I realize that I am making the most idiotic decision I have ever made. You're leaving me, everything you left is leaving me, and it makes me want to scream and shout until you actually hear me. I reach for you, hyperventilating, begging for you to not leave, _not again, don't delete, keep the memories, it's all I have, Jesus, don't-_

Delete.

**February 2nd, 8:14 PM. **

It takes a minute, but I open my eyes, and my chest feels a lot lighter. My eyes squint in the darkness, trying to at least see something, but I give up with a shake of my shoulders. The empty bedside next to me should bother me, for some reason it should, but I can't place my finger on it. My hair paints along the pillow that I lay on, and my breath catches as the wind blows mightily outside.

It doesn't remind me of anything.


End file.
